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(At a later time, I would like to share some of the eulogies with the permissions of the speakers.)

We headed out to the cemetery, located along the Long Island Expressway, where New York Jews have bought burial plots for generations.

SIDEBAR: The near universality of this practice has come in handy over the years. I remember when both Mom and Dad were much younger, we had two funerals — one in each of their families.

As we were rushing from one graveside service in order to be fashionably late to another, I heard my mother say under her breath, “a shtetl in life; shtetl in death. Thank G-d!”

My father was a veteran and the last of his brothers to die. We requested a honor guard because we thought it an important tribute not just to Dad, but to the whole generation, and to the ideals for which they fought and to the resulting scars that would never truly heal.

We arrived at the family plot. The two cadets were waiting there in full uniform and at attention.

When we were ready, we nodded and one cadet started playing Taps. As he played, everyone had their hands over their hearts. Even those at nearby graves. When a veteran is being buried, respect must be paid. I know that when I see someone in uniform, I quietly pray that they will go home to their families, safe and sound and in one piece.

I looked at my father’s coffin, draped with the American flag. His generation went to war. And they fought so that their children would not ever have to do so again (or so that was the hope).

Our family has demonstrated our love of country through these five brothers and their children and children’s children. In every generation, a Shapiro has served in the armed forces.

The sun was shining, and the wind was whipping, and the two cadets folded the flag with such precision that I felt as though our family was about to be given something truly priceless.

The more senior cadet walked to my sister and presented her with the flag, saying:

“On behalf of the President of the United States, ——

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!! STOP THE MUSIC. CUT!! STOP TAPE!!!!!

WHAAAAAAT? We all stopped. The spell and majesty of the moment were SHATTERED.

Then a cousin saved the moment by muttering under his breath (but at the top of his lungs, as is our custom): “He meant Obama!!!!!”

Ok, we could continue ———

——————— the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

Even with the snafu, the flag is indeed priceless.

And, in that moment, the sad and the beautiful, the creepy, the orange and the inspiring, the funny and the mundane all existed and were inextricably connected, as they are in every moment.

The rest of the burial went according to tradition. We shoveled dirt on the grave as a sign of respect in Jewish tradition. I think we all wanted to shovel more — because of tradition — but at the same time, we didn’t want to bury Dad because we didn’t want him to go. I think about that conundrum and it haunts me still.

And I was sad to leave Dad there in the cold but I rationalized that it would be ok because he was next to Mom.

And he was draped in the flag, although not in the actual grave. And yet, in life and in death, he was always cradled in the bosom of his family and his country.

I hope the same end for everyone in this country and, most especially, the members of our armed services who keep the rest of us safe.

I have mostly stopped blogging out of respect for Dad because the week to week life of an aged man needing 24 hour care is something that is reserved for family, on a need to know basis. To discuss the details, although helpful to those in similar situations, would have been an indignity to Dad.

But some things are funny and sad. And they need to be shared if only so we all know that life and death, love and hate, laughter and mourning, all exist at the same time, in every moment of our lives.

BOB (brother of blogger) came home to see Dad on a Friday. Dad’s joy was unparalleled at having most of his family at the dinner table, even though the rest of BOB’s family was still in Dallas (which is to be expected; they have school, etc.).

Saturday morning, Dad was barely responsive and unable to walk. We knew this was the beginning of the end. Except, not quite. Because Dad is the comeback kid.

Still, we all came running.

At around 7pm, by sheer force of family will, we had Dad in a wheelchair in the living room and drinking wine and toasting life. But we had to help him sip and then we had to get him back into bed.

But, if this was going to be the end, then our Dad was going to have whatever he wanted.

And, in the days ahead, that amounted to wine and chocolate ice cream.

SIDEBAR:

THIS IS AN IMPORTANT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Ask your loved ones for their ice cream of choice for end of life/palliative care purposes. I was surprised that SOB wanted chocolate (I was sure the answer would be vanilla) and that BOB has no preference (I was sure it was strawberry). Avoid the wrong ice cream choice at all costs. Don’t worry about the meds (other than the “chill” meds). Worry about the ice cream. TRUST ME.

By Sunday, BOB was having his first goodbye moment with Dad before he left to fly home to take care of his family.

ANOTHER SIDEBAR: Dad never goes down on any of the first fifty counts. How else do you think he got to 96.5??? We all knew BOB was coming back before the FINALE.

Monday afternoon, we re-enrolled Dad for hospice. He had been kicked off of hospice three times because he so far outlived every guestimate.

Tuesday afternoon, the hospice doctor was scheduled to come to examine Dad. Earlier that afternoon, Dad awoke from 36 hours of total unconsciousness and wanted fruit and ice cream and wanted to get out of bed.

EVEN BIGGER SIDEBAR WITH PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Death is never as linear, neat or as easy as in the movies. It is a war of attrition. At no point is it clear that the elderly or infirm person will die; it is clear however, that the caretakers might kill themselves. Resist the urge to go out the window. Close them. Child locks are best. Just sayin’. You eat more and drink more than ever you thought was possible. Go with it. The gym and the drying-out will have to wait.

So, Dad is being fed ice cream and fruit in the dining room, just as SOB is saying, “he needs to be back in bed before the hospice doctors get here….”

Sidebar: It was important for the hospice doctors to see him how he was — dying — and not judge him by his “perk” in mild energy and appetite. We needed hospice so that when he died, he would go from our warm embrace to ritual cleansing to burial and there would no interference by EMT or NYPD because that would defile his body.]

DING, DONG. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

OH, SHIT. THE HOSPICE DOCTORS!!.

SOB slow walks to the door, yelling, “coming!!!!” as I pop a wheelie on Dad’s wheelchair and careen him toward his bedroom. I stop to get my scarf that is strewn on a chair, because I want the full-on Snoopy “Curse you, Red Baron!!” look.

Janet freaks out — but we need to have flair in these difficult times.

As Janet opens the apartment door, I finish my dash into Dad’s room where his wonderful aide is taking a short break.

“Quick, into the bed!!!!”

“Sorry, Dad, I know this is hard. . . . .” as Heather and I left him and place him on the bed, and then swing his body so that he is lying comfortably.

Dad goes back into his semi-coma before we even get him on the bed.

Heather and I barely assume our places in the chairs in Dad’s room before the hospice doctors come in. But everything is like a movie set. If this were the 1950s, we would be casually smoking cigarettes, as Dad is resting comfortably.

SOB looks at Heather and me and mouths, “strong work.”

The doctors note Dad’s strong pulse but acknowledge that hospice is indicated. And they order all of the appropriate comfort paraphernalia — from medicine to diapers.

The last of our greatest generation. The last of the generation who grew up in poverty, fought in the wars that American won, worked hard and, with the help of the GI bill and public education, lived the American Dream.

And, most of all, Dad was a good, kind and loving man. And, as the rabbi said, he was an extraordinary, ordinary person, who felt so fortunate in life and was always ready to share with others less fortunate.

The Shiva candle burned for a week. That final day, I watched as the flame flickered and weakened. I was scared that I would lose Dad as soon as that candle went out. As the day wore on and the candle was finally extinguished, I knew that I needed to make sure that the best of Dad lived on in me.

And he was a whole lot nicer than I am.

Today, I was on the subway heading to work, and torturing myself with reading my siblings’ beautiful eulogies and listening to Ode to Joy (Himno de la Alegría), which I played for Dad in his last days. Ok, not Jewish, but I wanted Dad to leave this world with stirring music. (I also played Psalms as is our tradition).

I got off at my stop (Penn Station) and walked quickly to the staircase.

There was a man blocking the staircase. Everyone, including me, was exasperated that he was slowing us down.

But, I felt Dad put his now immortal hand on my shoulder, and I looked more closely at the man. He had a cane and looked far too enfeebled for his age. He looked like the many of the people in Penn Station — a little shabby and a lot down on their luck.

And I could tell he could not figure out how to manage his suitcase while negotiating the stairs with a cane.

“Sir, please let me be of assistance,” I said more as a statement than a request.

He looked at me, somewhat suspiciously and then somewhat relieved.

“Let me carry your suitcase down the stairs right behind you.” He nodded.

We descended the stairs at his pace. Many people behind us were sighing loudly in frustration. I didn’t care. Even though a few minutes earlier, I was one of them.

We reached the landing and he looked unsure how to get out of the subway labyrinth and into Penn Station.

I pointed him in the right direction, but realized that there were more stairs, so I took the suitcase and deposited at the top of the stairs, so when he finished climbing them, the suitcase would be waiting for him.

At that point, I think he was getting uncomfortable with my help. And I also knew that there were no more stairs until he had to board his commuter train. So, I directed him and shook his hand and wished him a safe trip.

I dedicate these moments of kindness to my Dad because while the candle’s flame went out, the example of his life is not extinguished.

This is a picture of my parents at Jamie’s Bar Mitzvah. Jamie is my second cousin once removed. I have seen him three times in my life. But he and his father, my mother’s first cousin, had special relationships with Mom. I get that. That Bar Mitzvah was probably a little over 30 years ago. Don’t Mom and Dad look great?

My son will be called to Torah as a Bar Mitzvah in June. My mother won’t be there in body. My dad will be there mostly in body only.

The only child of our Mom’s and Dad’s grandchildren to be called to Torah. And they should be kvelling (filled with pride), standing next to him, making the blessings before he reads from Torah.

I robbed my mother of this moment by having him so late in my life. Fate robbed me by taking Mom to her grave too early and by taking Dad’s mind from him.

My son’s Bar Mitzvah will be a joyous day but it will be incomplete. Because Mom and Dad will not be there — in the ways I imagined they would be — and I will miss what I imagine as their inevitable tears of joy and pride.

But I know that Dad will labor up the steps to the Bimah, with help. And he will say the blessings, from memory instilled long ago. And he will be present, infused by Mom’s spirit hovering over him, as he stands next to his grandson as his grandson reads from Torah.

And, in my mind’s eye, I will see Mom and Dad as they are in the picture. Vibrant and proud.

The shunted child of an immigrant generation. The “not-right” child that was institutionalized. And forgotten. And to all who asked, she was “dead”.

But she was, in fact, very much alive. In state-run assisted living buildings; in state run psychiatric facilities. Aunt Roz visited her once and put a deposit on a burial fund. Aunt Roz’s nephew discovered her existence by chance, by going through Aunt Roz’s papers after her death. He did not let up until he found her.

Shirley is her name. Shirley.

And then that nephew — my adopted cousin — claimed her as kin. Which no one had done for over 60 years. 60 years.

My new-found cousin visited this sister every other week and she started to speak after decades of silence.

Back story: My cousin is Aunt Roz’s blood nephew; I am not technically related to my aunt because she and my (blood) uncle never married. Before I had to contact my cousin upon my aunt’s death, I never spoke to him.

Shirley died today.

But because of my cousin, she did not die as an unknown, unclaimed soul. She died as a member of a family.

And so, she needed to be accorded the burial and last rites of a family member. And I needed to have her buried next to Aunt Roz so that they can figure it out in heaven (if such a place exists). My cousin was crying at the funeral home. Shirley’s ability to reach out to his wife and him and speak, if only in monosyllables, touched his gentle soul.

My cousin is by birth Jewish, but only recently discovered this. I sat with him in the funeral home as we talked through the ritual requirements of burial. He held my hand so tight, I thought I would lose circulation.

Not because he was scared, but (I think) because he has only begun to discover his lost family and now they are gone. And he didn’t know what to do with his pain.

Except we are his family. We are not related by blood or paper. But by love.

He is my cousin and I am his, his wife’s and his daughter’s.

He was embarrassed that I put out my credit card. I know that he would pay if he could. But he can’t. And it is ok, because I, too, claim Shirley as one of us, if only to bring her out of the darkness and loneliness, and, post-humously, into the bosom of family. Because that is what I must do and it is a blessing that I can afford to do this.

May Shirley live in our hearts in her death because we did not know her during her life.

Many Yahrzeits tonight for close family. I am too tired of death. I couldn’t get it together to buy Yahrzeit candles. But there are leftover Chanukah candles!!!

Two candles making one flame. They are Aunt Betty and Uncle Billy. Intertwined in death as in life.

One candle for Aunt Roz. [I am now dealing with the actual death of her recently undead sister — more about that in prior blogs.]

One candle for all who have no one to remember them. No one to remember them. No one. It doesn’t need to be family. It just needs to be someone who says, “I will remember you for all that you were (and weren’t).”

It is important to remember more than just the righteous among us. Because if that were the test, then I, for one, would become one of the nameless souls who came into and out of this world in the blink of an eye.

If you were to read my blog entries over the past years (don’t, really), you would know that my siblings and I have taken care of the elderly of our family, in all stages of life, death and that gray area in between.

We have found people collapsed in their homes, held their hands as they died, negotiated for access into their homes, slipped past police tape, found blood heirs because — while they were our relatives in love, mind and time — at their deaths, they were strangers as a matter of law. (Love matters in life; legal papers matter in death.)

I have surrendered firearms, repatriated funds from unnamed accounts, and taken those suffering from acute dementia and paranoia to psychiatric wards and held their hands through the process.

Aging is a nasty business.

These experiences must emanate from my being. Sometimes I think that there is a magnet implanted in my forehead in the shape of S.

S as in SCHMUCK

How do I know, you ask. Thank you for that segue.

Just last week, I was on the phone (being all important, OF COURSE) and another call comes in. I can tell it is an internal call, because the name flashes up. I get an email from my assistant that someone from one of our Florida offices asked that I call back (instead of the usual: “oh I will just email her”). I have never heard of the person so I look her up as I am dialing her back. She works in the records department in another office so I cannot imagine why she is calling me. No way our paths would have crossed. I have never been to our Florida offices and it is not likely that she traveled to the New York office.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Cindy, this is [Blogger] returning your call. How can I help you?”

“Thanks for calling back. My brother died yesterday in New York and I need some advice. Because he was relatively young, the police have cordoned off his apartment.”

Really, you are kidding me. Someone with whom I have never possibly crossed paths knows to call me when there is a death in the family. And a messy death, at that.

MY SCHMUCK MAGNET IS SO STRONG, IT DRAWS PEOPLE FROM ALMOST THE SOUTHERNMOST POINT OF THE CONTINENTAL UNITED STATES.

And what is crazier? I actually have experience in this. Because I had an aunt who. . . . blah blah blah.

I offer advice, not as a lawyer but as a family member who went through this. Her brother and she were not close, at all. She wants it all to go away.

Days go by. I email Cindy and ask about everything.

She types back: “Oh, yeah. He is really dead. There is some lawyer handling this. Thanks.”

Soooooo many things wrong with that. The obvious ones are too good to pass up:

of course, he is [still] dead.

I am invested in the outcome, but

in the span of three days, she has moved on.

Me? I am still in freeze frame in my own Law and Order episode.

I deserve the magnet. But, it may be that I am the one who gets sucked in.

The first truth about roller coaster rides is that it can be scary, exhilarating, fun and vomit-inducing, but, at its end, it delivers you to its starting point and you wobble out onto terra firma.

The second truth is that you don’t need to go to an amusement park to ride one.

Thursday began like any other day. I was late getting to the office for a call with opposing counsel. I didn’t even try to blame the trains. I emailed him on my subway ride to push back the call 15 minutes.

When I get out of the subway, I receive a text from Dad’s home health aide (HHA).

“Have your sister call me immediately.”

My sister, SOB (sister of blogger] is a doctor. This is not good. I call SOB immediately.

“SOB, it’s [Blogger], call HHA immediately. She just texted that she needs to speak with you. Call me after you speak to her.”

I am shaking. Is this the day? I don’t exactly remember the walk to my office. But as I start to turn on my computer, my ringing cell phone snaps me back.

“It’s [SOB], HHA had to call 911 because Dad is basically non-responsive.”

Is this the day that Dad dies?

SOB and I know that we have to run to Dad’s house before anyone takes him to a hospital, so we can evaluate the situation. He is almost 94 years old and has told us, again and again, that he wants to die in his bed. And, unless there was acute pain or discomfort to relieve, being in a hospital is only torture for a person his age. Old age is old age. This is not a curable condition. It is a fact of life.

I run part of the way there. SOB is still in traffic. I look at Dad. He is now alert and comfortable on the gurney. He knows me and seems relieved I am there. He has no pain but looks so tired. He smiles as he does when family walks into the room. Our embrace is awkward because he is on a gurney.

“Dad, [SOB] is coming any minute and we will figure out whether you need to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, darling. Let’s wait for [SOB].”

The EMTs tell me all his vitals are good. Apparently, Dad slumped over at breakfast and HHA couldn’t rouse him. She literally lifted him and had him lean on her while she got him to his bed in his bedroom. The EMTs said he was non-responsive when they got there but with a little rubbing on his sternum, he started to wake up.

Dad hovered between life and death and came back to life.

So, TODAY IS DEFINITELY NOT THE DAY.Still, the crisis isn’t over until the EMTs unstrap Dad from the gurney and they leave his house.

And Dad had mentioned heart disease, so the EMTs want to take him to the hospital.

“Dad is in mild heart failure. Who isn’t at almost 94? There is heart disease in his family, but he takes no medications, except an evening scotch.”

And then Dad says:

“They might not get paid if they came all this way and don’t come back with a patient.”

The EMTs smile. They understand that my father wants to do the honorable thing. They are also a little confused by his seeming clarity in one moment and his dementia in another. The EMTs wait for SOB to arrive (G-d bless professional courtesy).

Then Dad said:

“Before we go anywhere, I have to say goodbye to my wife.”

The EMTs look at me and look at HHA, who is 50 years his junior.

“NO, NO, NO,” I say. “Look at the wall. See the painting? That is Mom in 1967. He needs to say good-bye to HER.”

OMG OMG OMG. This still could be the day. Oh, SHIT.

The EMTs were fabulous. One was a little circumspect, probing about my knowledge of Dad’s medical and mental state. I appreciated his concern and we walked a little away from Dad.

“Look, my father has been exceptionally healthy his whole life. He is at the end of his life. If he is not in pain or gasping, why would I want newly minted doctors (it IS July, after all) poking and prodding him? But, let’s wait for the real doctor, my sister.”

Then that EMT starts to test my knowledge of Jewish culture and Yiddishkeit. The Blogger family name is stereotypically Jewish. And he was testing me to figure out if I understood the Commandment to honor my father and my mother.

SOB walks in and consults with the EMTs. Then she says to both of them:

“Last time he was in a hospital, it was for a brain bleed resulting from tripping on the sidewalk. Although he was in neuro ICU and was watched by a private nurse, he got out of bed twice and fell both times. Since then he wanders. A hospital is not a safe place for him. He has terrific 24 hour care at home. And my sister and I are each a cab ride away.”

Both EMTs understood. The circumspect EMT (who turned out to be an observant Jew) was more comfortable when we knew some Yiddish and when we told him that we had been through this drill before and we had tended to our mother in her dying days.

He said, “We have to call the supervisor. I fear Hashem [G-d], my wife, gobblins and my supervisor, and your dad said he wanted to go to the hospital before you both arrived.”

“I get that. Make yourselves to home. Can we give you something to drink or eat?”

The observant Jew demurred. The other EMT said, his wife packs food. So I asked, “you fear both your wife and Ha-Shem on this score.” He nodded.

The EMTs and Dad start to talk. They ask how he feels.

“It is the end.”

“End of what, sir?”

“The end of my life.”

Those words hang in the air, until interrupted by the arrival of the supervisor. The supervisor calls the doctor on duty. Everyone groans.

“What’s wrong with this doctor?” I ask, thinking the nightmare has just begun.

“He’s been sued a lot. He will want to enforce transport to the hospital.”

WAIT. WAIT. I have power of attorney. My sister has health proxy. We, and our 24/7 nursing care, take excellent care of Dad. We see him all of the time. We know his wishes, his medical history and, hell, what he eats in the diner and what he hates in a museum. We speak to him everyday and see him every weekend. Dad has told us what he wants and he trusts us. And we love him.

DIDN’T YOU SEE THAT HE WASN’T AFRAID ANYMORE WHEN HIS CHILDREN ARRIVED? THAT HE PERKED UP? HOW CAN THIS DOCTOR OVER THE PHONE ENFORCE THE TRANSPORT TO THE HOSPITAL?

Well, he did. SOB and I would not stand for it. Dad was sitting in a chair talking and feeling comfortable. He didn’t need to go to the hospital.

“Call the doctor back. NOW!”

At this point the EMTs are rooting for keeping Dad home. And I was ready to name Dr. [Blank] in a lawsuit. After the doctor spoke to Dad, he asked to speak to the daughter who is the lawyer. NOT THE DAUGHTER WHO IS THE DOCTOR. This is some paranoid dude.

“Yes, Dr. [Blank}.”

“Ms. [Blogger], BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH. BLAH BLAH BLAH” – I made the universal hari kari sign so everyone in the room could feel my pain — “Your father could have any number of issues.”

“Dr. [Blank], he is almost 94 years old. Can any of those potential issues be prevented by a hospital visit today? We can agree that the answer is no. And you have our family’s thanks for not compelling transport to a hospital. I appreciate your advice on guardianship. Thank you, doctor.”

The EMTs cheer the outcome. We hugged one EMT and I said to the observant Jew, “I won’t hug you or shake your hand, but I would if you weren’t observant.”

“Thank you. In this case, I fear my wife first. Hashem, second.”

SMART MAN, THAT EMT.

All non-essential personnel left. I went out to get pizza for everyone. To celebrate success after the two hours that felt like ten. We ate. We all sacked out for an hour.

SOB went into Dad’s bedroom to check on him. He was glad that he stayed at home. He was glad to have his children around and he felt loved and supported by all of his children, even though our brother lives far away. He told SOB what a lucky man he is and what a good life he has had. The drift toward the inevitable is beginning.

We all got up a kibbitzed. Soon it was cocktail hour.

“Dad,”SOB started, “there needs to be a new rule in the usual [Blogger family] protocol in these circumstances: If ambulance comes, no scotch at cocktail hour.”

Dad wasn’t so ok with it. So I had to draw it from him. The new addition to our protocol:

IF AMBULANCE,

THEN

Dad fought it tooth and nail and enjoyed the tussle with his kids. He was present in a way he is not usually. His mind was more clear (but still out there). He was a little pale, but he survived.

The day turned out to be a great day, because:

We met wonderful people — the EMTs — who care about the people they help.

And, Death took a holiday of sorts for our family.

SOB and I stagger off the roller coaster. The ride was rough but everyone survived.

In the Book of Joshua, the Israelites destroy the walls of Jericho by walking around it with the Ark of the Covenant for seven days, once per day for the first six and seven for last, blowing the Shofar (rams’ horn) and shouting to make the walls fall down (Joshua 6:14-15). [Courtesy of Wikipedia].

Well, I wasn’t so lucky. Or maybe that Jericho was an easy mark. Jericho, Long Island ain’t no biblical anything.

I was cleaning out a storage room of deceased family friends (don’t ask), in central Long Island.

SIDEBAR: There is a reason why their remaining worldly possessions are house in mid-Long Island. That is for another blog (maybe not; too boring even for this blog).

Almost all of the valuables have been sold; I must go through the rest to make sure that there are no undiscovered valuables wrapped together with the bed frame.

[NYCFOB: I could not even ask your help until I gain control of the contents.]

Yes, I am insane to take such a curatorial tact with this stuff. But they were a very special and wonderful couple, deserving of love and care even with the disposal of the detritus of their lives.

BUT THEN I HAD TO GO TO JERICHO, LONG ISLAND.A decidedly, non-biblical place.

WHYYYYYY?

The nearest Good Will drop-off was along the Jericho Turnpike.

The Jericho Turnpike.

The Jericho Turnpike?

The Jericho Turnpike was a thing a folklore, where 1970s radio advertisements told you to go to get the best deal on 8-Track tapes and Betamaxes and shag carpets [yes, yes, we are THAT old]. It WAS the place for all things advertised on the summer Top 40s radio shows. Casey Kasem was the king of Pop and the Jericho Turnpike.

Still, still, while I am not “Legally Blonde,” I am the quintessential “Parochial Manhattanite“.

As a proud and parochial Manhattanite, I go through life without owning a car, without thinking before hailing a cab and without wondering that I am lucky that everything I want is within three blocks (or it must be delivered).